


heavy is the crown

by kinpika



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Imagery, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Ratings, differing POVS, mentions of harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: “We will not die down here,” she murmurs, to him? To herself? Neither of them know the answer.Flashes of memory.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

You are the propped up figurehead.

The Good One. The Blessed One.

With your hair framed around your ears, and the looks under lashes towards your stature. A careful flower placed, over your hands, hide the scars and the life. Lower your lashes, please, hold that pose, just there.

There are no remarks, about the bones on which you sit, nor the furs that surround your shoulders. Worth more than you had ever dreamed, a hundred times the gilded cage you had traded for just one more day. A breath of life, and you listen to the strokes of hairs on canvas.

They will change the shape of your cheeks, erase the tattoos. You will not count, tomorrow, when you are amongst streets and buildings and have to remind those, who feel your magic, that you are the Warden. Commander. Saviour of the People for whom they try to take away.

But today you are the face. The pinched looks in the corners of the room, and the hushed whispers of _yes, just like that, lovely_. Draped in blues and silvers, great griffin that spans your chest. Heavier than when you had crawled through the Deep Roads, thinking only for the next day. The one after that.

If only because they can erase the little mistakes, like elves and magic, pretend they never exist, with a carefully placed stroke.


	2. Chapter 2

Careful touch of fingers along the curve of her jaw. Find the skin there, jagged, soft, something that he hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe he had, because her eyes grow heavy, watching the way Alistair pauses, pulls back. The slow shaky breath that leaves him, as he raises his face to meet her eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispers, like it was not just them, and the dark. Only the fire between her hands that grows weaker with each passing moment.

Aspasia tilts her head, scratchy noises of metal meeting rock. But it’s not her moving away. Not the way she had before, when Alistair was still just a mountain of steel and unknown quantities. No, that wasn’t the way it was now.

It was stained blues and a smudge on the cheek that just didn’t seem to rub away. A bruise around the eye and the whispers that crawled in their ears. Hands clasped, as the last of the lick of flames died out. Where the air grew cold, and Aspasia finds herself resting her head on his shoulder.

“We will not die down here,” she murmurs, to him? To herself? Neither of them know the answer.

The certainty was almost so easy to believe. Alistair squeezes her hand, once, twice, no, we will not die down here.


	3. Chapter 3

Words have no use for her, when she sweeps a hand towards the sky. There is no shout, not even a whisper, as Aspasia’s fingers spread wide. Slowly but surely, the ring forms, spiralling out. And yet is caught, tight, when she clenches, holds. 

Runic, tainted by the sparks that flurry, fire down. Like a call that cannot be heard by any other ears, as the darkspawn hiss under the silent fury. Hiss and spit and try to fight at the burn, the fire, that releases from her. If there are words, they may speak, _not here, not today, not now, not ever!_ But they are cast into the way the darkspawn burn and boil, lost to song.


	4. Chapter 4

He is.

Far too gentle.

Than what she was accustomed to.

Aspasia expected polished armour and harsh eyes, that followed her with every little movement. Waiting for the perfect moment to yell, _heretic_ , and turn on her. Push and shove and find every little means necessary to say,

Goodbye.

But Alistair is delicate. Thorns and soft petals and the way his lips curl upwards, light filling his eyes, when he sees the runt of the litter, tucked in a barn they were hiding in. How he removes his gloves, picks it up, and whispers to it, until the mabari opens its eyes. Aspasia does not hear the words, not exactly, too busy picking dirt from under her nails.

Too busy watching from the corners of her eyes, at the way firelight warms his cheeks. There are edges there, in the dark of night, but of course there are. Always. She knows she has her own, and that she covers herself in them, to keep herself safe.

And good.

And whole.

Keep the beasts out. Keep those people at bay.

And Aspasia is so caught up in the force, she misses the way Alistair just. Passes through. Warmth and honey and honest and genuine good. He does not cast long shadows, and moves through the walls and barriers to find what, exactly, she does not know.

So she sits closer to the fire, opposite where he lays. Another three pups that clamber over him, pressing close. Holds her knees to her chest, smother the feeling. Bury it in the ashes of the night and the smell of hay. First night of fire and peace, that was only interrupted by the,

Way Alistair,

Smiles at her.

Across the flames.


End file.
